dim, still violent.

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Hunger Makes Me | Hazlitt

A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite—for food, for sex, for simple attention—is always voracious: she always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist.

The secret to satiation, to satisfaction, was not to meet or even acknowledge your needs, but to curtail them. We learn the same lesson about our emotional hunger: Want less, and you will always have enough.

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Young anarchist-communist resistant Jean Quarré, pulling faces to the German cameraman while taken to the firing squad. France, 1944.

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Charlotte et son Jules (Short) | Jean-Luc Godard | 1960 

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Throw Away Your Books, Rally in the Streets (1971), dir. Shūji Terayama

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“Mad women fight back”; “Bet your ass we’re paranoid” - Psychiatric survivors during a protest in 1976

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Poland, 1981.

Photographs by Bruno Barbey

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The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly // Hans-Jörg Mayer, 1991(l-r Charlene von Heyl, Michaela Eichwald, Jutta Koether, Cosima von Bonin, Isabelle Graw)

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Anish Kapoor, 2015, Silicone Courtesy of Lisson Gallery

Anish Kapoor returns to the Lisson Gallery, more than three decades since his first exhibition there. The show contrasts his coolly rational sculptures with a series of giant and wildly expressive resin and silicon works that resemble animal carcasses. Recalling works by Rembrandt, Soutine and Bacon, the display engages in a play of interiority and exteriority, reshaping the viewers’ psychological states as well as the space around them.

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Mark Rothko, Black in Deep Red, 1957

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Fatima Al Qadiri - Oil Well

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í gær

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert. A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

W.B.Yeats, The Second Coming (Slouching towards Bethlehem)

[cissyonjanet]

“…The life of the cognitive laborer, the life of the creative laborer… anybody who works on the limb. And it’s always connected with the idea of the virtuosic, because if you’re precarious, you’re free because you don’t have an obligation to work from 9-5 every day. You can only work when you choose to work, and the capitalist society tells you that that gives you a great amount of freedom. But on the other hand you have to always be in a state of performativity, of hyper-joy, of celebration… which gives a great tension to the precarious laborer." 

- Carolyn Christov-Bakargiev

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Considering mental illnesses an individual chemico-biological problem has enormous benefits for capitalism. First, it reinforces Capital’s drive towards atomistic individualisation (you are sick because of your brain chemistry). Second, it provides an enormously lucrative market in which multinational pharmaceutical can peddle their pharmaceuticals (we can cure you with our SSRI’s). It goes without saying that all mental illnesses are neurologically instantiated, but this says nothing about their causation. If it is true, for instance, that depression is constituted by low serotonin levels, what still needs to be explained is why particular individuals have low levels of serotonin. This requires a social and political explanation; and the task of repoliticalising mental illness is an urgent one if the left wants to challenge capitalist realism.

Capitalism Realism - Mark Fisher  (via laxisme)

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If I were a cinnamon peeler I would ride your bed and leave the yellow bark dust on your pillow. Your breasts and shoulders would reek you could never walk through markets without the profession of my fingers floating over you. The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon. Here on the upper thigh at this smooth pasture neighbor to your hair or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle. You will be known among strangers as the cinnamon peeler’s wife. I could hardly glance at you before marriage never touch you — your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers. I buried my hands in saffron, disguised them over smoking tar, helped the honey gatherers… When we swam once I touched you in water and our bodies remained free, you could hold me and be blind of smell. You climbed the bank and said this is how you touch other women the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter. And you searched your arms for the missing perfume. and knew what good is it to be the lime burner’s daughter left with no trace as if not spoken to in an act of love as if wounded without the pleasure of scar. You touched your belly to my hands in the dry air and said I am the cinnamon peeler’s wife. Smell me.

Michael Ondaatje, “The Cinnamon Peeler” (1982)

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Tricky - Sun Down (feat, Tirzah)

Adrian Thaws is seriously the best Tricky album since Blowback